


Defiance

by ShaneAndrew



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dom/sub, Everybody is human, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShaneAndrew/pseuds/ShaneAndrew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the smallest moments of chance can forever alter the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [terryreviews](https://archiveofourown.org/users/terryreviews/gifts).



> Written for a prompt from the lovely terryreviews, who asked for a Bilbo/Bofur massage-type moment.  
> From that simple directive my brain went utterly off the tracks and concocted the story that follows; all I'll say in my defense is that while the massage is later on, it is still in there :P
> 
> -Written from Bofur's POV (getting in my practice for third person limited aw yeah)  
> -This is a D/s fic, so if that's not your thing you probably shouldn't read much farther  
>    
> I hope you enjoy the spewing forth of words that my rabid cranium cooks up :D
> 
> SA

Everything was a blur of pain and light and sickly swirling color. His breathing was too hard, too harsh, not enough _air_ –

            When he came to, he was cold, so cold, right down to the bone and shivering for all he was worth even as the hot sting of shame crawled down his spine. People were talking to him, maybe, but their voices were blurred and far away somehow, as though spoken underwater.

            There was a hand on his shoulder; another ran a soft, clean cloth over his clammy forehead. He shied away from the touch, arms coming to cross over his chest as he curled into himself. Dimly he was aware of some ruckus nearby, a controlled and contained brawl that moved steadily towards the door. And then it was gone, as quickly as it had come.

            He was standing, waving away the many that sought to keep him sitting. Sure and he was unsteady on his feet yet, but he needed out. He needed to breathe.

            The crisp autumn air soothed over his face and poured smoothly into his lungs like a drink of purest water. He gasped for it, leaning against the crumbling brick, feeling his stuttering heartbeat slowly resume a normal pace. It wasn’t until he hissed at the scraping sensation that he realized his hand resting on the reddish wall had curled itself into a fist and was digging into the stones of the place. He jerked back, a whimper escaping his lips.

            “Excuse me, I don’t want to be a bother, but are you quite sure you’re alright?”

            And just like that, the easy smile he was known for slotted neatly into place. “Just got a bit woozy is all, nothin’ to worry on.” Without a word more he turned smartly on his heel and made for his car.

            If he didn’t let the silent, scorching tears fall until he was fully ten miles away and on the highway home, well, surely no one would be the wiser.

            Right?

            _Stupid, stupid. It’s foolish you are, to think that could’ve gone anythin’ but disastrous._

Well that was all fine then. He’d just stay away for a while. He’d been getting tired of that particular scene anyway. Mayhaps he’d find another place, a softer one that better catered to his tastes.

            He winced as the door gave its usual protesting squeak, but judging by the lump on the sofa under a hefty novel, Ori was already quite soundly asleep. He hung his coat on its hook before throwing a knitted quilt over his young flatmate, gently tugging the book from his limp fingers and sticking a torn piece of paper in for a place marker.

            Four minutes later, as he burrowed naked under his down quilt and curled into a ball of exhaustion and wistfulness, he found himself to be unusually conscious of the empty space on the other side of the mattress.

            He _knew_ what he needed. Why was it nobody else could seem to see it?


	2. Chapter 2

“Tonight, ye say?” Bofur cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder as he unloaded the dishwasher. “So soon?”

            “Nine o’clock sharp.” It was refreshing, if a little unusual, to hear Thorin so excited. “There shall be talk of this opening for months to come. Erebor is finally ready to receive company again.”

            “I’m glad ta hear it. Surely I never thought t’hear anything but grumpy mutterings from ye until the end of days.” When the other gave a mildly offended huff, Bofur couldn’t help his chuckle. “C’mon, am I not allowed t’tease every now and again?”

            “It seems to be all you ever do, these days.”

            “ ’s all part of me charm.” Hanging the towel back on its hook, Bofur lowered himself into a chair. “Truly, I’m happy for you. After ye were bought out I’d never seen you so distraught.”

            “That is in the past now. Tonight, we return. And I was hoping you’d come.”

            Every muscle in his body tensed. “I’m ah, not sure as that’s advisable.”

            “Bofur.” Thorin’s voice was gentle now, a rarity for him. “You know I would never allow you to be put in danger.”         

            “I know that, I do. But I’m not sure as I can, d’ye understand? After last time, I just…” He swallowed hard, trying to breathe evenly. “Well, ye remember, I’m sure.”

            “That was after the establishment was out of my control. I’ve made Dwalin my head of security, and you may rest well knowing –”

            “Thorin, I’m not blamin’ you. ’Twas my own foolishness that landed me in such a mess.”

            “That is not true. It was that bastard who put you in such a position. What must I do to convince you that you are not at fault?” When Bofur remained silent, a quiet sigh crackled over the phone.

            “We would be glad of your return, Bofur.”

            “I know.” He had to wiggle his shoulders to ease the tension trying to settle there. He was happy for his friend, of course he was, but could he not be happy for him from a distance? “Just…let me think on it a while, alright?”

            “As you wish.” Thorin’s voice was easygoing now, but Bofur heard the light thread of disappointment there. “Wish us luck then. And be sure to send folk our way, if you can.”

            “Aye, of course. I wish ye luck tonight, and who knows? Mayhaps I can find it in me to show.”

            “Whatever your choice, old friend, you will always be welcome with us. Nine o’clock, if you change your mind.” The line went quiet in his hands.

            Bugger all, did he have to play the ‘we want you there’ card? He knew damn well how Bofur responded to that sort of reasoning, how he would drop most everything to make a friend smile. And while he probably had not said such things consciously, and actually did miss him, Bofur couldn’t help but feel like he was being manipulated. And not in the way he enjoyed, either.

            “What’s wrong?” Ori had come in without him hearing, his sandy hair mussed from the spring winds. He leaned easily against the kitchen doorframe, head cocked to the side and backpack hanging off of one shoulder. “You’re looking awful peaky.”

            “A friend of mine is opening his new club tonight, and he’s asked me ta put in an appearance.”

            The youth’s eyes brightened with interest. “Is it the kind of club I’m thinking of? You did say you’d take me when I was old enough –”

            “Age isn’t the problem, lad.” Bofur pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking how best to explain himself. “It’s that this sort of place can be rather intense.”

            “But I’ve done all sorts of research, and everything I’ve read says it’s _supposed_ to be intense.”

            “I know ye have, and that’s great that yer educating yerself. But the thing ye need to understand is that it’s a lot t’take in at once. Sure and there’ll be those that’ll ease ye into it, and make sure yer safe. But there are others who’d soon as tear you apart with nary a second thought, and there’s nobody as deserves that.”

            “What are you so afraid of?” Ori crossed his arms over his thin chest. “You used to play the scene, right?”

            “Yes, but –”

            “Then even if I don’t know exactly what to do you can walk me through it.”

            “I’m not sure ye’re ready yet,” he chided gently. When the younger huffed a sigh, it was all he could do to not to start talking to him like a child. He wasn’t the scrawny, scared youth Bofur had nearly tripped over in the street all those years ago.

            But that was just it. He’d found Ori at a particularly ugly time in the boy’s life, and he’d be damned if he was going to let his friend go back to that. He’d taken him in on a whim and as such had been completely blindsided by the close friendship that had blossomed up between them. And the thought of knowingly putting him in a situation where he could end up seriously hurt made Bofur’s stomach clench with knotted fury. He wouldn’t do it.

            “Well, _I’m_ not afraid; I’m up for it. Why aren’t you?”

            A silvered lance of pain spiked into Bofur’s throat. “Because I had a bad experience a coupla months ago, it scared th’ living daylights out of me, I never went back, end of story.”

            “Didn’t you have a safeword?”

            “The bloke I was fool enough to get involved with didn’t listen to it.” Ori’s brown eyes widened and a little gasp escaped him, and suddenly he looked years younger.

            “But…but they’re supposed to listen to the safeword!”

            “What makes ye think everyone will?” Oh, it hurt his heart to have to say this aloud, to have to revisit these old memories. “What in th’ wide world makes ye think that just by waltzing in there, wantin’ to experiment automatically makes ye immune from everything? There’s so much more to the scene than safewords, Ori. There has to be th’ deepest bond of trust ye can imagine. Willingness is all well an’ good, but are ye willing to put yer well-being – every bit of it, mind, not just the physical – into the hands of another?

            “I don’t mean to frighten ye, lad.” Ori had become quite silent, gaze turned downward. “I just want ye to be safe, and ye need to understand that this has its risks, jus’ the same as anythin’ else. I don’t want ye hurt because of me.”

            “Because you’re afraid.”

            “Aye, you’re right enough in that. The thought of you gettin’ hurt scares me. But…but ye do deserve a chance t’give things a look-around.” He clenched his free hand under the table, steeling himself. “How’s about we go tonight, but ye must stay close to me. Absolutely no goin’ off on yer own, understood? And ye’re to let me know the minute anyone makes ye even the tiniest bit uncomfortable.”

            “I can do that.” A small smile worked its way back onto his face. “I trust you to keep me safe.”

            “And ye’ll listen if I caution you away from somebody? Ye’ll trust my judgment?”

            “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” He shrugged. “Sure, I’ll default to you.”

             “Thank you.” _That’s one hurdle down._ "Be ready to leave ’round about eight-thirty or so.” As Ori gathered up his things and went into the living room, Bofur briefly closed his eyes, indulged himself in a shuddering exhale.

            He couldn’t hide forever. And besides, who said he had to go there looking for anything in particular? He was going to celebrate his friend’s business success, that’s all. Thorin had only asked that he show, not for him to play the field. He’d go and congratulate his friend, have a whisky and keep an eye on Ori.

            There really was nothing else he would be expected to do, therefore everything would be fine. He’d be fine. He’d go and just be himself, and everything would be fine.


	3. Chapter 3

It surprised him a little how walking back into a place like this could affect him, despite it not being the place where he’d been so hurt.

            The smell was still the same - the alcohol and heat threaded lightly with cigarette smoke, though it had yet to gain the stale, slightly sweet musk of sex. The cornucopia of scents washed over his senses, and it was all he could do to hold in the gasp that wanted to spill out of him.

            “Don’t be an idiot; it’s not the same place a’tall.”

            “What’s that?” Ori, eyes wide at the dimly lit array before them, cocked his head to the side. “You okay?”

            “ ’m fine, lad. Don’t you worry about me. We’re here so you can be introduced to things, yes? Tonight’s about you so you needn’t think on me.”

            “If you say so.” He was already bobbing along to the bass-heavy rhythms being churned out from the enormous speakers over the bar. He looked utterly fascinated, his face bearing an expression of enthralled apprehension.

            “Now remember Ori, if ye’re feelin’ too overwhelmed –”

            “I’ll say ‘I think it’s time I got a new cardigan’. I’m not entirely stupid, you know.”

            “Right.” Why was his chest so tight?

            “Where’s your friend?” His eyes were skating quickly over the crowd of people now, gaze sharpening at some of the more revealing attire. “This is a hell of a crush; how’re we going to find him?”

            “He’ll likely be in the middle somewhere; Thorin’s got a bit of a flair for drama and ’e just loves attention.” Bofur rolled his shoulders and made to enter the throng, but came up short when his friend did not follow.

            “Ye coming?”

            “Oh my God, who is that?” Ori was standing still and slack-jawed, pointing towards a man standing some fifteen feet away. Bemused, Bofur turned to look and let out a sigh of relief.

            “Oh, tha’s Dwalin. He’s head of security.”

            Ori’s tongue darted out over his lips. “He’s _gorgeous_.”

            “Yes, and if ye can get yer legs t’work I can introduce ye to him.” Bofur couldn’t help his smile as he took the younger’s arm. “Or shall I wait fer you t’find an engagement ring first?”

            “Shutup.” Ori let himself be towed along, swallowing hard and adjusting his jacket. Bofur studiously straightened his face, though truth be told he was a little easier at heart that his friend’s first sign of interest was in someone he knew to be safe.

            As they drew nearer, Thorin appeared beside Dwalin’s leather-clad bulk, his dark blue eyes crinkling at the corners once he spotted Bofur.

            “It’s good to see you.” Clad in a blue-and-bronze waistcoat, slacks and crisp white shirtsleeves, dark hair in a long ponytail, Thorin gave Bofur a hearty clap on his back. “I was hoping you would join us.”

            Bofur’s heart rose a bit at the pleased look on his friend’s face. “Ach well, y’can thank this young’un fer berating me into comin’.” He laid a reassuring squeeze on Ori’s shoulder. “Thorin Oakenshield, Dwalin, this is Ori. He’s my friend and my flatmate an’ he’s been dyin’ to check out this kind of place fer ages now, so I thought I may as well show so’s I could introduce him to things.”

            “He doesna say much, does he?” Dwalin peered down at him, a smirk playing about his mouth. “A wee little thing he is, too.”

            “It’s not the s-size that counts.” Ori stammered, flushing. “Trust me, I can more than make up for it.”

            “I’m sure you can, being as feisty as you are.” Dwalin gave him a roguish wink, causing Ori’s cheeks to redden further. “Maybe you’d care to show an auld man like me just how you make up for it, eh?”

            Bofur cleared his throat. “Easy there, it’s ’is first time.”

            “Ah, sorry about that.” Dwalin relented, letting a sheepish grin through. “Never fear, Bofur; I’ll behave meself.”

            “Is he off and intimidating the masses per usual, then?” A man a few inches shorter than Bofur arrived, hands full of glasses. “Here’s your ale, Thorin.” Brown eyes the color of dark chocolate connected with Bofur’s, widened fractionally. “And who might this be?”

            “Bofur, and this is my friend Ori.” The newcomer bore honey-colored curls and a ruddy complexion, complemented by the burgundy coat he had on. His frame was smallish, compact, though very solid-looking. He held himself with a subtle dignity, a quiet confidence, and his face was all but unreadable.

            “A pleasure to meet you, Bofur and Ori.” He grasped hands with them lightly, his palm a cupped heat. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

            The five of them chatted amicably for a while, exchanging pleasantries and commenting on the success of the opening. Bofur stayed relatively quiet, only listening with half an ear. He was here to watch out for Ori, make sure he was enjoying himself and in no danger, but he found his eye drawn again and again back to Bilbo.

            His expression was politely interested and he was contributing just as much as the others, but there was just the barest set to his shoulders, and tired bruises under his eyes. His right hand kept coming up to rub over the spot where his neck joined his shoulder, and his lips were tight when he wasn’t talking.

            Bofur took what he thought to be a nonchalant step closer, under the pretense of shifting his weight. The man’s overall stance was rather stiff as well, reluctant to give way.

            “Neck rotations,” he murmured.

            “Beg your pardon?”

            “Ye need to stretch the muscles in yer neck every few hours or so if y’want to avoid cramps and the like.” A quick glance assured him that Ori was in good hands and not going anywhere.

            “Is that right?”

            “Oh yeah. ’specially the ones at the back –” he reached out a hand, brushed the pads of his fingers over the base of the others’ neck, “ – just there, the ones that connect up t’yer shoulders and near yer spine. Once ye got the central nervous system relaxed the rest comes easy as breathin’.”

            _Now, where did that come from?_

            “Quite.” Bilbo, that was his name, peered closely at him, brow arched and eyes searching. “Perhaps you’d care to demonstrate the appropriate stretches?”

            A warm curl spread through Bofur’s stomach. “Sure and I’d be happy to. Here,” he reached out again, then seemed to freeze.

            _This is not how a good sub behaves. What are you doing?_

            “Shut up,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s not what ye’re here for.”

            “I’m sorry?”

            “Nothin’.”

            “Go on, then.” The man’s tone was calm, conversational. Not in any way demanding. Relax. Breathe.

            “Ah, best to start with some easy rolls.” He arched his neck back and around to the front and back again, slow and easy to fully stretch the muscles. He let out a soft sigh; he hadn’t noticed but he’d been relatively tense as well. He indulged himself in another rotation, and so missed the momentary darkening of the others’ eyes.

            “Like this?” Bilbo rolled his head around as Bofur had, but too fast and short.

            “Slow up there; you’ve got it wrong.”

            “Oh dear, have I? I do apologize.”

            “No it’s fine, it’s just that if you go too quick you’re likely to hurt yerself.” He moved to stand behind the other without thinking, putting their bodies mere inches apart as he placed his hands just behind the man’s ears.

            “Ye’ve got to ease into it, d’you see?” He tilted Baggins’ head to the left, gently guiding its path. “And down, to the side…an’ back again.” He had very nice skin, Bofur thought. And such soft hair that his fingers instinctively threaded themselves into. “And around, and back.”

            “You’ve exceptionally steady hands.”

            Delighted heat seeped into Bofur’s cheeks. “Ye’re kind t’say so, sir.”

            “Come stand ’round the front and show me again.”

            “Of course.” He stepped out and around, put his hands back into position and began to again rotate the other’s head. Curiously, when his eyes might have been elsewhere, he found he could not tear his gaze away from that of the man in front of him.

            His eyes were steady and bright and more than a little warm, it seemed. More than that there was a kind of muted wondering in them, a spark of intrigue and interest. Interest in Bofur, and only Bofur.

            He could very easily lose himself, gladly float forever in such a gaze as that.

            “That’s enough, thank you.” Bofur dropped his hands immediately, and the man nodded his approval.

            “Tell me, Bofur: Are you a submissive?”

            Oh. _Oh._

            This one was very, very good.

            “Might be.” His breathing was no longer so even, but for whatever reason it was not stirring a panic in him. “Depends on what it is ye’re after, I’m thinkin’.”

            “Nothing high-pressure, don’t worry. This isn’t my usual place of patronage; I’d rather be at home in front of the fire. I don’t like to conduct my scenes in so public a place, nor do I rule with an iron fist and a studded collar.” At Bofur’s stunned glance, he gave a shrug. “I only came tonight because Thorin asked it of me.”

            “Yer a Dom.” He could hardly believe it; the man standing in front of him did not fit his expectations in any way. But the confidence, the quiet commands he hadn’t hesitated to obey, the way he was reading him like an open book all spoke to the truth of it.

            “Yes, I am. And I did not want to take things any farther without complete consent and the proper negotiations.”

            “How d’ye know ye’ve got what _I’m_ after?” Nervousness was swirling in him now; he had not come here to negotiate anything. At least, nothing typical. “Fer all you know I’m not good at this sorta thing.”

            “Be still,” he soothed, and something in his tone made Bofur’s muscles want to unclench. “I’m not here to judge. Though I must say you’re quite proficient at easing muscle strain.”

            Bofur’s lips quirked in spite of himself. “And ye’ve a right knack fer flattery, I grant ye that. Keep it up an’ I may start blushin’ like a schoolgirl.”

            “Would you like that?” Bilbo’s tone was quieter now, and simmering with promise.

            “Would you?”

            “I might.” He touched their fingers together, and Bofur found himself wanting to lean into that gentle warmth. “Will you give me that chance?”

            It was a question, not a demand. It was offer, not an ultimatum. Bilbo’s expression was absolutely neutral, making it clear that the choice was Bofur’s to make.

            He had said it was low-pressure. And Bofur did very much enjoy being told he’d done well, that warm glow of pride that buoyed him up when he was praised.

            “...one chance. Just the one, mind. I have not done this for a time, an’ the last time din’t go so well fer me.”

            “It’s something we’ll talk about, then, so I don’t put you in that position.” Bilbo smiled fully then, and Bofur found himself catching his breath at the bright sweetness of it. “I look forward to chatting with you further, Bofur.” And then he was gone, waving to Thorin as he disappeared into the crowd.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: non-con situation in flashback form

Sunlight streamed in through the windows, lending vibrancy to the cool earth-tones of the décor. Soft greens, deep blues, muted yellow and burgundy over the smoothly polished wood the color of honey mead. The shaft of light also drew attention to a small swarm of dust motes, floating unhurried and lazy through the fresh-smelling air.

            Air only mildly disturbed by the muffled and inventive cursing of the house’s only occupant.

            Bilbo stood with foot a-tapping in the center of his front room, homey if now uncomfortably immaculate. His nose twitched a bit as he surveyed the place; books and papers that had been comfortably strewn about now in rigid stacks on shelves or next to armchairs.

            He turned sharply, muttering to himself as he paced back and forth, back and forth. Words that might have been picked out were “don’t be daft” and “relax” and “confusticate the bloody dusting”. Then the doorbell rang and Bilbo suddenly resembled a toddler caught with his hand embarrassingly deep in a particularly forbidden cookie jar.

            “Don’t be ridiculous, or if you have to be at least let the poor man in, that’s what Father always said.” He tried his best to put on a neutral face, let his fingers dance a moment, silently scolded himself and finally opened the door.

            Bofur appeared to be in the middle of rehearsing some speech or other, at any rate as soon as the door gave its usual customary squeak he straightened, reddened, and let out a sheepish grin.

            “’Ello Mister Baggins, y’said to come by today an’ I know it’s a few minutes to three yet but I din’t want ta keep you waiting I’m sure yer busy an’ all that, won’t take up too much of yer time –”

            “No, wait –” Lips twitching for no good reason, Bilbo held up a hand. “Wait just a minute. You’re speaking a thousand miles a minute; I didn’t catch all of that.”

            Bofur winced. “Sorry.” His broad chest expanded out and out, then relaxed again. “Hi. Ye – ye said to come by yer place today at three?”

            “Yes, that’s right, I did.” He stood a little straighter, stepping to the side. “Please, come in. Kettle’s just boiled.”

            “Has it? I’m dyin’ fer a cuppa, if that’s alright.”

            “Er…that is to say, it will be shortly. Just a minute.” Bilbo shook his head.

            Bofur let his breath whoosh out of him as quietly as he could whilst his host bustled with harried grace towards the kitchen. Surely something was amiss, for he had not seemed nearly so on edge when Bofur had met him weekend before last at Thorin’s club. He’d been all smooth lines and pleasant manner and control, control, control.

            And now…now Bofur might just swear that Bi- that Mr. Baggins was _nervous_.

            Except that was impossible.

            “Sugar?”

            “Me name’s Bofur, but if you…oh, the _tea_ , right. Three, please.” Good lord, how much of this meeting was going to be spent tripping over his own tongue?

            “You’re against pet names, then?”

            “Pardon?”

            “Just trying to get a sense of your preferences.”

            “Well it would – I mean, it’s different with everybody –”

            “You’re stalling, Bofur.” Bilbo’s voice was starting to take on that smooth, quiet tone again. “What’s got you so jumpy?”

            Bofur stiffened, swallowed. Looked anywhere but at the man in front of him.

            He should have come by sooner; he should have insisted they meet sooner. Then he would not have had time to start thinking, and thinking and thinking until a veritable flood of what-ifs and second-guesses had stormed into, over, through his head and made him unsure of himself.

            It had been better, in that moment in the club’s crowded dark. He’d operated on instinct, and Bilbo had played him like Bofur played his tinwhistle – deft and sure and effortlessly.

            “I don’t know what it is ye’re wanting,” he finally said. “I don’t do so well when I don’t know what it is others’re wanting. I don’t know where I stand.”

            Bilbo nodded, chewing at his lower lip while a finger tap-tap-tapped against the side of his teacup. _Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap._

            _Don’t send me away. I want to do good. I can do good, just tell me what to do._

            “Alright.” Bilbo took a gulp of his tea, set down both saucers on an end table without looking at them. His brown eyes were trained on Bofur, gently assessing. “Please come here.”

            Bofur’s legs started into motion instantly, the hard set of his spine losing some of its rigidity. He halted a meter away from the other, tentatively flicked his gaze up and up so that it connected with Bilbo’s. Wary, but willing. The ghost of a flirtatious quirk of the lips made itself known for a brief moment, and the shorter man nodded to himself.

            “I’m going to turn around, so that my back is to you. I would like you to give me a massage.”

            “Just that?”

            “Just that. If you’ll recall, I tend to store rather more tension in my shoulders and neck than I should. And I’ve no doubt you can help me with it.”

            “I can help you with it,” Bofur echoed.

            “And you’re to tell me the moment you are made uncomfortable in any way, no matter how small it may seem to you. Do I have your word?”

            “But ye’re supposed t’be the one who –”

            “Do I have your word, Bofur?”

            “…yes.” The word was hardly above a whisper, but at least it got Bilbo to turn around. As his focused gaze slid away Bofur let out a breath he’d been holding since he’d entered the place. Maybe now it wouldn’t feel like the man was staring into his soul with a magnifying glass.

            Not wanting to endure another prolonged silence, Bofur brought his hands up and again placed them just behind the other’s ears to rotate his head around and around. He’d done this before and Bilbo had responded well, and that meant it was safe.

            He felt the muscles under his strong fingers beginning to relax and loosen, and his own breathing beginning to steady itself. Slowly, lingeringly, he let his hands trace a little lower to knead at the tops of Bilbo’s shoulders. A soft sigh breathed out of the man, and a smile found its way onto Bofur’s face. He shifted, stepped closer, adjusted his stance so that he could press deeper.

            He slid his front four fingers to drape above Bilbo’s collarbones as his thumbs anchored themselves at the inner edges of Bilbo’s shoulder blades. His thumbs massaged in firm little circles, his fingers moving in their own gliding drag over the tension riding Bilbo’s compact body.

            “That’s very good, Bofur.” Bilbo’s voice had dipped a note lower. “You’re doing just fine.”

            “Thank you, sir.” Tongue darting out to wet his lips, Bofur released his hold to focus on the sides of Bilbo’s shoulders and onto the tops of his arms. There was not a great deal of muscle to be tended to there, but he found he was rather enjoying just sinking his fingers into flesh, touching deeply again and again and all over. His palms were burning with the contact.

            _Easy there, boy-o. Don’t be getting ahead of yourself now._

            “Are you alright?” Despite the concern in Bilbo’s tone, he seemed oddly unwilling to shift from his current position. “You’ve tensed up.”

            Bofur’s hands stilled, but did not drop.

            “Don’t – I don’t want to be goin’ too far, is all.” A nervous chuckle escaped him and he tossed his head to mask it. “Besides, I can’t be spillin’ all my s-secrets yet or how ever would I keep ye interested?”

            “There’s plenty enough about you to keep me interested for quite a while, I’m sure.” Bilbo stepped away, turning as Bofur’s hands found their customary place by his sides. The look Bilbo aimed at him was more familiar, that intrigue and muted heat that he’d left Bofur with nearly a fortnight ago. And he was smiling like he knew something, and there was the barest crinkling in the skin ’round his eyes. “Thank you for the massage, it was lovely. And now, I think it’s high time we had it out straight with one another. Have a seat.”

            Bofur chose the nearest armchair, sinking gratefully into the well-worn leather. When Bilbo offered him the tea his large hands wrapped themselves firmly around the delicate china, basking in the radiating warmth. He took a quick swallow, chased a few drops with his tongue as the sweet wetness danced over his lips. Bilbo’s brow rose up fractionally, and Bofur hastened to clear his throat.

            “So, eh…”

            “What is your history with the scene? What do I need to know about the things you enjoy and are against engaging in?”

            “Sure and ye’ve a fancy way with words.” The glow from their brief physical interlude was starting to wane. “I got into it the same as a lot of folk do, I’m thinking. Curiosity and a long career of bein’ a people-pleaser.”

            “So you knew from the start, then. That you were a submissive?” Bilbo stirred his tea – cream, no sugar – as he let his face return to the expression he’d worn when he’d opened his door.

            “In the same way I knew I liked t’make people happy, ye could say.”

            “And does being a submissive make you happy? Does it fulfill your needs?”

            “Y’ask an awful lot of questions.”

            “I simply like to know where I stand. Rather like you, I think.” Bilbo set his tea aside without a second glance. “For instance – and forgive me if I come off too forward – I asked you here today to see if you would be amenable to a Dominant/submissive relationship. With me.” He swallowed, his fingers starting to fidget. “I wanted to see if it wasn’t just me who felt something from our interaction at Erebor’s opening.”

            “It wasn’t just you. It’s only…ach, ye were honest so I’ll level with ye.” How could he put this without sounding rude? “I can’t figure out which is really you – the sleek an’ sexy, put-together lad I met at the club or the bloke who comes off nervous as anythin’ when he’s away from th’ scene. I mean,” he had to fight not to drop his gaze. “Aside from when I was massaging ye a few minutes ago ye’ve been on edge, it seems.”

            “Well, you’re not wrong.” Bilbo had flushed up at Bofur’s use of the word ‘sexy’, like he couldn’t decide if he liked having that term ascribed to him or not. “Most Dominants in my experience, and really most submissives, go into a different headspace when they’re caught up in a scene. Their personalities shift a bit.”

            “And that night, ye were in Dom mode?”

            “Yes. A choice I made when Thorin asked me to attend.”

            “And that doesn’t freak yer subs out ever? That switch y’make?”

            “It hasn’t yet. Does it make you ‘freak out’?”

            Bofur wiped his hands on his jeans. “The uh, last Dom I was with, he…he switched personalities when we would scene. And as things went on, it got bloody terrifying. ’s why I haven’t been back in two months and more, an’ probably why ye blindsided me as much as ye did. I wasna prepared to get into all this again.”

            Bilbo had been sitting with his back fitting snugly to the curve of the chair, his gaze friendly and relaxed. Now he sat tall, and there was an entirely different light in his eyes.

            “I was there, you know. That night.”

            The silence that followed Bilbo’s statement was immense, roaring in Bofur’s ears.

            “What?” It came out a whisper, hushed, fearful of being overheard. "What?"

            “Two and a half months ago. At the original location of Thorin’s club, shortly before it was bought out. I tried to speak to you afterwards, outside, but you were determined to go on your way.”

            “You saw.” His eyes squeezed themselves shut of their own accord. Dark images snapped sporadically across his mind, grating over his senses.

            His hands, bound and burning. The rough fabric used for a blindfold, causing his breathing to spike and tremble. The impossible weight of too many eyes on him, the oppressive heat of the floodlights exposing him against his will. Nails digging into his biceps, teeth biting too hard at his overstretched throat, the hand clapped over his mouth whenever he tried to protest.

            The smooth and rich and merciless laughter of his partner when he’d safeworded. He’d gasped it out, and the other had slapped him, hard. _No_ , they’d growled. _You know you want this. You deserve punishment._

            _You’re mine_.

            “Bofur?”

            He didn’t remember moving his hands from his lap to the arms of the chair. He didn’t know, for a moment, why his knuckles were white and tingling. He opened his mouth to speak.

            “No, don’t say you’re sorry.” Bilbo had not risen from his seat, but he looked as though he wanted to. “What happened was not your fault.”

            “He – he –”

            “Whoever he was, I remember him being tossed out after security had gotten you away. He’s gone now, and he’s not here. You are safe.”

            When Bofur’s eyes found Bilbo’s, they were wide and confused and overbright. His lips shut themselves firmly, but the pleading expression remained. Bilbo’s gaze sharpened, and he approached slowly and steadily, and covered the back of Bofur’s hand with his own.

            “You’re safe,” he repeated. “I’m right here and I will not hurt you.”

            “You promise?” Inwardly he groaned at the how high his voice sounded, how childish.

            “I promise.” His hand was squeezed once, then pried from its vicelike grip and wrapped again around his teacup. “Drink.”

            “I’m not sure as I could do this. I mean I want to ’cause ye seem like a good lad, and I certainly like how ye…y’know. But I don’t want t’disappoint you either.”

            “Because you’re not always in the right frame of mind? Bofur, that is entirely normal and perfectly alright.”

            “But I want to do well.”

            “And you are, by telling me all this. You telling me means that I can make sure you stay safe and happy.”

            Bofur gulped at his tea, inhaling and exhaling the soothing scent. Letting Bilbo’s touch ground him. He was far away from that awful place, he was enjoying a nice cup of tea, and a handsome, well-intentioned man wanted to make _him_ happy. He could do worse.

            But what if it didn’t work out? What if he had to safeword and it went wrong again? What if everything went wonderfully and he felt miserable after anyway?

            What if he tried his hardest to be good, only to get tossed aside?

            _That’s very good. You’re doing just fine._

_You’re safe here._

            “Not today,” he finally blurted. “I want to, but, but not today.”

            “Of course.” Bilbo smiled reassuringly. “Whenever you’re ready, whatever time that may take.”

            The words swirled around and around in Bofur’s head as he drove home, along with Bilbo’s request that he send him an e-mail with his specific triggers, boundaries, and preferences, as well as what he was hoping to get out of their relationship. Personally Bofur found it all a bit formal, but then maybe it was the lack of formalities that had made things bad last time.

            Maybe this time could be different. Maybe Bilbo knew what he needed, and was willing to give it to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this update took so long to get up, I don't usually fall behind like this. Things have been pretty rough for me since the new year; I've had a number of panic attacks and suffered minor relapse in the past fortnight alone. Added onto that the fact that this is the last semester of my undergrad, so I'm swamped with work and worry.
> 
> As such, updates will be a little farther apart as the story goes on, at least until May when I graduate. I'm hoping to have a chapter up every two weeks or so.
> 
> Thanks all for reading and making my writing process all the merrier.
> 
> -SA


	5. Chapter 5

“I’d like you to think of this as a trust exercise.”

            “How d’ye mean?”

            “You mentioned in your initial message that you felt difficulty in letting go, and in letting anyone besides yourself have control during a scene.” Bilbo sat in the same armchair he’d occupied when last they’d seen one another. Bofur, too full of nervous energy, had elected to stand until they’d started.

            “Given your last experience in this kind of relationship, I’m not surprised that you feel this way.”

            “I can’t help it.” The words came quick, automatic. Apologetic. “I can’t help feelin’ that way any more’n I can help breathin’.”

            “I am not trying to belittle your feelings or your experiences.” Bilbo’s voice was steady as a river. “What happened to you the last time you took a chance was nothing short of traumatic; therefore it is only natural for it to leave a lasting mark on you. I am not mad or disappointed.”

            Bofur simply pressed his lips together.

            “Take a breath, Bofur.”

            Air rushed into his lungs, and whooshed out again.

            “Another.” He closed his eyes, hands unclenching. The creak of leather had an eyelid twitching, and he suppressed it. _No_. He could do this.

            The air hummed with anticipation for a drawn-out moment, unmoving, permeated only by Bofur’s rigid breathing. He couldn’t hear Bilbo at all, not even the shift of cloth on skin. How much longer was he expected to stay like this?

            “You don’t have to keep your eyes closed, if you don’t want to. That’s not part of this exercise.”

            “Thanks,” he blurted. Bilbo was standing now, head cocked to the side a bit as he studied Bofur. He was wearing a yellow waistcoat over a cream-colored shirt today, and green pants that reminded Bofur of summertime leaves.

            He wondered how it might feel to run his hands over the fabric, if it would be as soft as it looked.

            “Eyes on mine, please.” Bilbo’s voice was casual, almost conversational.

            “Lookin’ t’do some soul-searchin’, are we?” Bofur found the trembling edge of a nervous laugh tickling at the base of his throat. “A bit o’ star-gazing perhaps?”

            “There aren’t any constellations in my gaze, I should think.”

            “Can’t be sure till I’ve ’ad a peek, now can I?”

            “You’re in a rather flirtatious mood today.” But there was a bare tinge of blood beneath his cheeks, now rounded from the small smile he wore.

            “Is…that’s alright, isn’t it?”

            “Does it feel alright?”

            Bofur shrugged, gaze for once unwavering. “Sure and it settles me nerves t’be a bit playful.”

            “What else is making you nervous?”

            His next inhale was not so steady, and when he spoke his voice had lost a great deal of volume.

            “I dunno what’s going ta happen. I dunno what ye have planned fer me.” His eyes were so very dark, Bofur thought. So dark and deep, and open like an embrace. Like there was nothing Bofur could do or say that would earn him punishment.

            How was Bilbo managing to keep him at ease?

            “I can assure you that we won’t do anything you are not prepared for. And as I said, I’d like for you to view this as a trust exercise. This is me demonstrating that you will be safe with me, and that you can trust my judgment.”

            Bilbo took a step forward, then another, until he stood no more than a foot from Bofur.

            “You remember the safeword we chose?”

            “Wh-Whistle.”

            “That’s right. You’re to use it if you need to, and we’ll stop at once,” he said, mild sternness coloring his tone. “I’ll not have you putting yourself in harm’s way.”

            What in the world was that supposed to mean? “I’ll use it if I need to.” He hoped, oh how he hoped he wouldn’t need to.

            “Excellent.” Bilbo raised up his arms, slowly, giving Bofur time to move away. When he didn’t his gaze cleared and he set his hands lightly to Bofur’s broad shoulders.

            “Trust that I know what to do,” he murmured. “Trust yourself to be capable of doing what I ask of you.”

            Bofur nodded, feeling his nostrils flair at this first contact. This was the first time Bilbo had touched him, instead of the other way ’round. Well, excepting when he’d had his foolish episode when last he was here, and Bilbo had had to hold his hand and coddle him like a child.

            “Keep your mind in the present, if you would. Focus on my eyes, and the sound of my voice. If you feel you want to close your eyes, you may.”

            And then Bilbo stepped closer, right up to his body, and began to drag his fingers down Bofur’s arms. And up, and down, and sweeping again to the top in a steady, soothing brush.

            Bofur did not know why, but he could not so easily stare into Bilbo’s eyes when the man’s hands were on him. Mayhaps if he could return the gesture it would take less effort, but he had not been given permission to do so.

            So he turned his attention to Bilbo’s touch and the touch alone. Bilbo’s fingers were shorter than his own, nails neatly trimmed instead of bitten irregularly, and Bofur could feel the strength in them. They were only gliding over his arms now, soft as a breeze, but he’d a keen suspicious that these hands could produce pain just the same as pleasure.

            Why on earth such a thought should make his breathing catch was a mystery to him.

            “That’s right, Bofur. Relax, and keep breathing. You’re doing marvelously.”

            “Thank you, sir.”

            “Does it please you?”

            “Pardon?”

            “Calling me ‘sir’.”

            It was Bofur’s turn to blush. “Aye, ye could say that.”

            “Good.” Bilbo smiled up at him. Bofur found himself returning it, and felt a twisting warmth rise up in his chest.

            Then, he let his eyes fall closed.

            “What’re ye wanting me t’do next?”

            “Keep breathing, for starters.” If Bofur didn’t know any better, he’d say there was a fair deal more satisfaction in Bilbo’s voice than had been present moments before. “Keep your eyes closed, and do as I’m doing.”

            Bofur’s hands were over Bilbo’s shoulders before he could stop to think, to doubt, and he felt a thrill slide up his spine like quicksilver. This was what he’d missed, what had captivated him upon their first meeting. The spontaneity, the acting on instinct, the subtle promise of _more_ thrumming in the space between them.

            Then his hands were moving in tandem with Bilbo’s, up and down, again, again, pressing just a little more. Feeling the bunch and slide of Bilbo’s shirtsleeves, and the light dusting of dark blond hair over his forearms. And with his eyes closed he could privately revel in the touches, absorb all he needed from the sensation alone. He didn’t need to see when the contact between them was this secure, sparking like a live circuit of electricity.

            When Bilbo’s hands stilled, fingers inches from his own, Bofur realized his breathing, although steady enough, had become considerably more shallow.

            “S-sir?”

            “Stay here, eyes closed.” Bilbo’s voice was very carefully neutral, and bore a trembling undercurrent. “Hands at your sides. I shan’t be a moment.”

            Bilbo’s footsteps retreated to another part of the house. Bofur strained his ears, and thought he heard water running for a moment. Was he washing his hands? A toy, maybe?

            “Don’t be an idiot,” he muttered to himself. “ ’s way too early in th’ game fer that sort of thing. Likely he’s just stretchin’ things out a bit. Seein’ how long ye can last.”

            Part of him wondered if he should even out his breathing. Another, larger part of him was having altogether too much fun with standing flustered in another man’s front room and waiting to please and be pleased. To prove himself worthy of Bilbo’s attentions.

            Footsteps were drawing closer, and his back straightened itself. The air in front of him shifted, and his brow rose up in an unspoken question.

            “Keep your hands where they are.” The words were closer than he’d expected, feathering over his skin. Bilbo must have been no more than a few inches away. “I will tell you when you can move them again.”

            Bofur opened his mouth to acquiesce, and started as a finger traced over his upper lip. “Sure thing,” he whispered. His heart was bounding like a jackrabbit against his ribs.

            The floorboards squeaked. His cheek was cupped by a hand that was warm and dry, and another hand pressed over his right collarbone. Preventing him from leaning forward despite his suddenly insistent urge to do just that.

            Bilbo was going to kiss him. He was going to lean forward and lift up his chin and close his gorgeous eyes and kiss him.

            A breath puffed over his now parted lips, and his muscles knotted themselves in delicious tension. And tensed, and tensed, until he could swear they were vibrating like the plucked string of a guitar.

            “You want me to kiss you, don’t you?” Bilbo’s voice swam across his mind, and it was lower now, richer. “I know you want to kiss me, that much is plain. Why don’t you?”

            Bofur swallowed, hard. “Ye havena said I could,” he managed. “Besides, were it me kissin’ you I’d be needin’ use of me hands, and ye’ve said t’keep them where they are.”

            “Very good.” Bilbo chuckled and it was a sweet sound, at charming odds with the velvet of his voice. “You’re doing marvelously, you know that?”

            “Th-then I should get a kiss fer my efforts, eh?” Emboldened by the praise, he cocked an eyebrow. “Y’said ye know full well I’m wantin’ to lock lips. What of you?”

            Bilbo inhaled sharply, and an instant later covered Bofur’s mouth with his own. His hands firmed, holding Bofur just where he wanted him.

            Bofur felt the sudden punch of the kiss right down to his gut, and did nothing to stop the whimper that spilled out of his throat. Bilbo’s lips were absolute silk, shifting fluidly over his own, and the pressed and pushed just enough to kindle the sparks in his belly into a flame. He had to clench his hands into fists to stop them from snatching a hold of Bilbo, and it was a tremendous effort to stand still and be kissed, to not reciprocate.

            The hand at his cheek tilted his head to the side, changing the angle, letting Bilbo fit their lips together more truly. He pulled away just enough to plant smaller kisses, soft little pinpricks of heat, over and around Bofur’s mouth, over his free cheek, on the underside of his jaw. Bilbo’s breathing belied his steady words of moments past, for it now bore a most interesting, hesitant hitching to it. It was as though Bilbo was not sure of what he himself wanted, though he had read Bofur like an open book.

            The hand at his collarbone contracted momentarily, nails digging into him for an instant. Then both hands were on his head, pulling him further down.

            “If you would still like to,” Bilbo said thickly, “You may move your hands now.”

            “And may I kiss ye back?” Bofur’s eyes peeked open, widened at the sight of Bilbo’s pupils far expanded and his cheeks set all aglow. “Please may I kiss ye back, sir?”

            Bilbo nodded, gaze trained on Bofur’s mouth, and no sooner had he completed the movement than Bofur’s grip was immovable on the smaller man’s hips, sliding up to slot into the curve of his waist, and he parted his Dom’s lips with his own.

            A startled sound came out of Bilbo, and Bofur might have retreated in apology if not for fingers suddenly intertwined with his thick hair, holding him fast. Eager now, abandoning thought, he slipped his tongue into the cavern of Bilbo’s mouth and groaned as it met the other’s. He stepped forward, letting a hand caress the small of Bilbo’s back, increasing the pressure of his lips. Drawing one of Bilbo’s lips into his mouth, nipping at it until the other let out a shuddering sigh.

            They stayed like that for minutes neither of them counted, temporarily lost in the moment. Then Bilbo moved his hands to Bofur’s, squeezed once, and drew back.

            “…well.” He was blinking rapidly, nose twitching. “I say.”

            Bofur could tell his eyes were overbright, his cheeks flushed, his hair more than likely a wild mess by now given how Bilbo had been weaving his fingers into it. Something was bubbling up inside him that he had not felt for a very long time.

            “Is that the end of th’ scene?”

            “Y…yes. Yes, I think so.” Bilbo absentmindedly twisted his fingers together. “You, ah, did very, very well.”

            “Did I?” A huge grin split across Bofur’s face. “Ye weren’t so bad yerself.”

            The other let out a real laugh then, and he rubbed at the back of his neck. “We should get into aftercare. What do you need from me? Is there anything you need to talk about? Are you feeling alright?”

            “Am I feelin’ alright? I could likely fly t’the moon and back.” He was alright, he realized. He didn’t know when last he’d been this alright. “What about you, sir?”

            “Please, ‘Bilbo’ is more than acceptable when we’re not in-scene. And aftercare is my job to worry about, not yours. I’m perfectly fine.” He pulled out his pocket-watch, and visibly winced. “I’m terribly sorry, but I have another engagement shortly. Things to do for work and all that.”

            “No worries.” Bofur was too caught up in his own afterglow to notice how Bilbo’s expression had subtly closed up, become distracted. “We’ll be doin’ this again then?”

            “Of course.” He touched Bofur’s elbow as he guided him to the door. “I’m quite looking forward to this, Bofur. I’ll be in touch.”

            Bofur waited until the door had closed and he was halfway down the street to his car before letting out a whoop and punching the air. He’d done it! He’d taken a flying leap into the unknown and had come out alright. He was good. He’d done very well, Bilbo had said.

            Though truth be told he wouldn’t have minded staying a little longer; it was clear as daylight that Bilbo was rather more skilled than Bofur had assumed him to be. Ardently he hoped his new Dom would continue to defy his expectations.

            And hopefully things might go a little longer next time. It was a little odd that he’d been shooed out so soon, but surely whatever Bilbo was doing was important.

            He’d said he was perfectly fine, hadn’t he?


	6. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please accept this brief filler whilst I get next chapter sorted (my laptop recently kicked the proverbial bucket; I had to pen this in a rush on my brother's computer). Gods willing it should be up within a week.
> 
> Again I apologize for the sporadic updates; I know it's aggravating. For those of you reading, I thank you in advance for your patience (or, failing that, I thank you for not seeking to destroy me for my lateness)
> 
> -SA

Bilbo stood still for rather a longish moment, after Bofur had shut the door behind him and all but gone dancing on his way. Goodness, if a mere kiss and a bit could elate him so, what on earth might Bilbo’s other plans elicit from the man?

            Time would have to tell, it seemed.

            Shaking himself a bit, Bilbo cleared his throat and carefully locked the door, checked the windows. He’d half a mind to draw the curtains, but there shouldn’t really be any need for that at this point in time. After all, Thorin had all but guaranteed that the danger they’d been in was past.

            Speaking of Thorin, he’d best be getting on.

            Walking briskly to the back of his home, he picked up his mobile phone from its place on the bedside table, pushed a few buttons, and listened to the message his friend had left him during his time with Bofur.

 

 _“Bilbo, it’s me. I need you to come to Erebor as soon as you’re able._ ” Thorin’s voice was oddly quiet, as if he did not want to be overheard. _“I am not sure this is over as we had hoped. Rumors have begun to spread, and I would like your opinion of those I have been privy to._

_“When you come, come alone. The fewer involved, the lesser the damage if things turn sour. Text me when you are on your way.”_

           

            A prickle of fear wormed its way into his throat, before trickling unbidden through his chest.

            Bloody, bloody damn. He did not want to be drawn back into this.

            True, his actions had been instrumental in helping a great deal of people, but said actions had also given him more than enough adventure for one lifetime. He’d told Thorin, Dwalin and the rest of them that once he’d helped them complete their task, he was done. They’d accepted that and thanked him most generously when his part in that particular tale was ended.

            He especially did not want to intrude on his time with Bofur, seeing as they’d just barely begun their relationship. Besides, beyond their initial mutual attraction there was something about Bofur that Bilbo found himself irrevocably drawn to. Sure, Bofur’s smile made his heart do the most interesting twists and turns, and gods knew his sweetly brash flirtation was a refreshing change from what Bilbo was used to from a submissive. But there was pain there too, an astonishingly honest vulnerability that Bofur nevertheless tried (and in Bilbo’s opinion, quite failed) to keep buried deep in the darkest parts of himself.

            Should Bilbo get back into all this, he could be very well putting Bofur in danger of experiencing that pain all over again. Should he get back into all this, should things not go as well as they had last time, he could inadvertently break his promise to Bofur that he would always put Bofur’s safety and security first.  The mere thought of such a possibility had his features darkening and caused anger to curl up in his gut. The memory of Bofur’s skin being leached of color as his green eyes went wide with fear had Bilbo shaking his head firmly. He would _not_ be the one to put that expression back onto Bofur’s face. He wouldn’t have it.

            But Thorin was one of his very closest friends, and had known Bilbo for fully half of his life. He’d helped Bilbo out of more scrapes than he could name, and had never failed to be there when Bilbo had had need of anything, be it a favor or a shoulder to cry on. Should not he be willing to do the same?

            Blast it all, if it weren’t for the coincidence of circumstances between Bofur’s history and the threat Thorin could very well be facing, avoiding this whole sordid ordeal would be a damn sight easier to accomplish.

            “Best you go round his place, then,” Bilbo murmured to himself. “See what he’s about before making any rash decisions.”


	7. Chapter 7

Erebor's colorful front was dim in the light of day, taking its rest in anticipation of the lively nighttime clientele to come. _She's happiest when her halls are filled_ , Thorin had said of his club. _It is in those moment that she truly lives._

            Bilbo had, at the time, simply nodded politely and let Thorin enthuse more or less to himself. But now, standing on the pavement before the elegant if muted façade, he thought he understood.

            This was Thorin's home as well as his business, and not just because he owned a flat abovestairs. He'd built this thing up from the ground when he'd had nothing else, and so when he'd been bought out he'd very nearly lost his home as well as his livelihood.

            And hadn't it been Bilbo who'd helped him see clearly past his initial fury, and go about making arrangements for his club to relocate? Hadn't it been Bilbo who'd advised him on staying under the radar until he'd settled again, to keep Thorin's competitors off his trail? Much more than a business, indeed. This was Thorin's life. He could not let his friend lose all that again, if that was what proved to be at stake.

            Granted, that didn't mean he wasn't fervently hoping for something rather less extreme than that.

            Dwalin was waiting for him just outside Thorin's office, and he tipped his slouch-cap to Bilbo before following him in through the door.

            Thorin, prodding at his computer and muttering darkly, gave the thing a frustrated thump before shaking his head and rising to greet Bilbo.

            “I never could get the hang of these accursed things.” He hugged Bilbo hard a moment, clapped Dwalin on the shoulder.

            Bilbo's brow arched itself upwards. The hug was unusual enough, but the forced small talk was in essence a flashing neon sign that things were most assuredly Not Good.

            “This'll be quick then?”

            “As ever, Master Baggins, you are impatient to settle matters.” An upward curve of the lips took the sting from Thorin's words. “You know that a matter such as this requires time.”

            “Time to brood and sulk and deliberate for far too long, you mean?” Bilbo returned the smile with ease. “That does seem to be your way.”

            Thorin merely tossed his dark head and huffed a bit, resuming his seat. Bilbo perched primly on the edge of one of the leather-clad chairs facing Thorin's desk, fingers rat-a-tat-tatting along the arm.

            “I've pulled you away from something, haven't I?

            “Mm? No, no of course not. I'm in no hurry.”

            “Really.”

            Bilbo forced his hands to fold themselves in his lap. _Calm,_ he ordered himself. _Collected. This does not have to cross into other areas of your life._ He'd come here to find out what had happened, and to possibly start to consider actions he could take in relation to said happenings. For all he knew, Thorin was simply making a mountain range out of half a molehill.

            Best to start simply then.

            “Tell me what you've heard,” he prompted.

            Thorin and Dwalin exchanged a look. “There has been talk of revenge.”

            “Bastard doesn't know when 'e's beaten,” Dwalin growled. “Nor does 'e seem ta grasp the concept of enjoyin' the wealth 'e's already got.”

            “Well, men such as he are prone to –” something registered belatedly, bringing Bilbo's thought process to a stuttering halt.

            “'Revenge'? You assured me our actions went undetected!”

            “The worm is cleverer than we had anticipated.” Thorin looked as though he'd swallowed something exceptionally bitter. “He's not without his spies, underlings in the needed places to report back to him.”

            “Who?” Old, familiar anger twisted Bilbo's insides. “You have names, surely?”

            “Not as yet, but we'll find 'em,” Dwalin reassured, cracking his knuckles. “And in th' meantime...Well, I've got me own team out and about. They'll not be gettin' in without a good hard fight.”

            They spoke of fighting and revenge as though war were upon them, and Bilbo's resolve was beginning to tremble like a sapling in a windstorm.

            “And what is it you're asking me to do?” he said. “You told me we were done, and while I can appreciate that circumstances have changed for the worse, I'm not sure if I can be of real assistance to you.”

            “I have your support?”

            “Of course you have my bloody support, Thorin, you know that. But there are limits to just how much I can do for you in this instance, surely you must know that too.”

            “It would not be of exceptional difficulty.” Thorin's tone was cajoling, or at least he liked to think it sounded that way. “A few minor tasks, nothing more.”

            Bilbo crossed his arms and prayed for patience. “I cannot help you if you do not give me the details of your expectations for me.”

            “Aye, you've a right to know.” His friend's jaw clenched, his lips pursed. “Very well then.”

  


  


“What is it ye're wanting t'do exactly?”

            “I was hoping we could go back to the club again, sometime soon.” Ori was feigning nonchalance as he chopped vegetables for stew. “Tomorrow maybe, or the night after.”

            “And why the sudden hurry, if I may be so bold?” Bofur slanted a teasing grin at his flatmate. “Has a certain burly security guard been keepin' ye up nights with fantasies I'd soon as not know th' gory details of?”

            The younger man's face stayed remarkably unaffected, despite its color suddenly resembling that of a ripened peach. “Wouldn't _you_ like to know."

            Bofur considered a moment. “Nah, I really wouldn't. Whatever it is tha' you an' Dwalin get up to is yer own business.”

            Ori fell silent, lips pursing and gaining a downward turn. “We haven't – we haven't even really done anything of anything, yet."

            The worry-laced hurt coloring the younger's tone had Bofur frowning and standing up from where he lounged against the counter-top. “Ye mean since th' pair of ye met?"

            “No no, it hasn't been that long. We got together about ten days ago, just to chat over coffee at this little place he knows, and it was lovely.”

            “But?”

            Carrots, potatoes, and parsnips were tossed with slightly unnecessary force into the colander in the sink. “But he hasn't texted me not once since then, when he usually sends me a flirtation or some godawful joke every few days or so. And if not that, he'll say he's going 'radio silent' or whatever for a few days, then lets me know when we can talk again. I mean, what am I supposed to think when I've had not even a single word from the man in a week and a half? I thought we had a good connection.”

            “Whoa there laddie, slow down a touch.” Bofur cocked his head to the side, thinking of what he knew of Dwalin's character. “It's been...what, three weeks since ye met?”

            “Twenty-three days today, yeah. Why?”

            “And all yer talk and other such encounters have been pleasant, right? Ye've both been pleased t'see each other, enjoyin' the company?"

            “Being with him is like having butterflies made of fireworks in my stomach,” Ori sighed dreamily.

            Oh lord. It was one of Those cases.

            “Ori,” Bofur began. “Listen, I'm sure it's nothin' t'worry on. Likely he's just caught up with work and whatnot. Things come up, people get unexpectedly busy."

            “And he can't find two minutes of his time to let me know that he's busy? Or that he doesn't want to see me anymore?"

            “I find it hard t'believe that that's the case, luv. Ye said he enjoys yer time together, and that he flirts with you a fair bit. Would he be doin' all that if he weren't interested, or invested in ye?”

            “But how can I know for sure, unless I've talked to him?”

            “Have you?”

            “What?”

            “Have you talked to him? Or texted, to ask what was goin' on his end of things?"

            Realization slid across Ori's face with all the speed of a glacier. “...oh. No.”

            “Can't just be waitin' around fer 'im to come t'you all of th' time, laddie.” Bofur gave his flatmate a knowing smile. “Sometimes ye gotta be th' one to make a move, if ye're wanting things t'go forward.”

            “Right. Yeah. Um,” Ori flicked his eyes to the vegetables still sitting in the sink. “Could you, uh, get the stew started for me? I'll be back in a tick.”

            Bofur suppressed a chuckle and nodded. “Go and see what yer beau's up to, an' don't be shy about takin' yer time if ye need it. I've got things covered here.”

            “Thanks.” Looking brighter already, Ori pulled his mobile out of his pocket as he slipped into the living room.

            Bofur shook his head as he dumped the veggies into the stew pot and ground up two cubes of bouillon for broth. Poor thing. If Ori wanted to navigate the scene he'd have to really brush up his communication skills. Then again, if it were Dwalin that introduced him into the ebb and flow of that world, he'd be in more than capable hands.

            Speaking of which, hadn't he heard his own phone buzz whilst Ori had been spilling his troubles?

            One missed call, from Bilbo. No message though, but perhaps it hadn't been of any import. And he'd only just left Bilbo's place a few hours ago; if he'd needed to tell Bofur something he would have left a message. His thumb hovered over the Return Call button, but the phone was pushed back into his pocket.

            Best he'd wait until Ori had his thing all figured out. He didn't want to seem like he was rubbing his and Bilbo's blooming relationship in his flatmate's face, especially when said flatmate was so worried about his own significant other.

            Bofur would make his move, right enough, but in his own time. He wondered, briefly, if Bilbo was the sort to fuss and work himself into a worry when a friend didn't call him right back. And it may have been not very nice of him that he got a little mischievous curl of satisfaction at the thought of his Dom being infatuated enough to miss him that much.

            But that certainly didn't stop the quiet little grin that snuck onto his face.


	8. Chapter 8

The chance to make his move came sooner than he'd anticipated, for Bilbo called him again the very next day. Thankfully, he was available to chat this time.

            “Hello?”

            “Bofur, hello. It's Bilbo.”

            “So I gathered from the call ID.” Bofur was in a playful way, a smile hovering at the edge of his lilting voice. “Twice in as many days, eh?”

            “Yes, I called yesterday. I was hoping we could get together again, sooner rather than later.”

            “That right?” Bofur didn't bother to hide his chuckle. “And here I thought to be the one t'be hounding ye fer another go, or can't ye get enough of me?”

            “That is...part of the reason I wish to see you, yes.” Bilbo's tone was more measured, more careful. As though he needed to hand-pick each word before uttering it. “Well, most of the reason. Yes.”

            Bofur's brows drew in a moment. “What d'ye mean?”

            Bilbo's silence was just a hair too lengthy. “It's probably nothing. Just some more things to negotiate, scheduling and the like. When next are you free?”

            “Yer place or mine?” The response was automatic, a spoken filler as his brain began its litany of worrisome extrapolation. _He's having second thoughts. Too much too soon. You asked for and did too much too soon._

            “Which would put you more at ease?”

            “Mine, if ye don't mind.” _Then I won't have to be the one leaving._

            “What time?”

            “How's dinner Wednesday?”

            “Sounds manageable. And you needn't worry; as I said it's likely nothing.”

            “What is?” He knew he sounded pushy. He didn't care. “Bilbo, has something happened? Are ye alright? If I overstepped meself in any way, any way a'tall –”

            “Bofur.” Despite the overall weariness in his voice, Bilbo spoke softly. “I promise it's no fault of yours, or anything you have done. Will you trust me on that?”

            “I...of course.”

            “Thank you.” The words were breathed in relief. “I'll see you Wednesday evening then.”

            “It's a date.” The smile was small, but a valiant effort nonetheless. “Bye now.”

_It can't be as bad as you're thinkin'. Likely it is nothin', just as he said. Ye can trust him._

_Gods know he's earned it._

            Bofur let his fingers wring themselves together a moment, doing what he could to even his breathing before anxiety could take hold, and spread its deceit like poison through his mind. Bilbo was a safe space. Bilbo cared. Logically he knew Bilbo cared, and even if he didn't know that yet all signs had been pointing to that irrefutable fact since day one anyway. He'd be daft not to see it.

            It was in the way he spoke to him, reassured him, held him close whether in comfort or in the heat of a scene. It was in the way Bilbo knew that ugliest part of his recent past, the part that Bofur most ardently had tried to forget. Apparently he'd even been there and had tried to find Bofur after, though for the life of him he could not remember that one fraction of time.

            Aye, his Dom cared. He could trust in that, would trust in that. He turned his mind to the way he felt when entwined in Bilbo's unfailingly supportive embrace, and breathed easy.

            Until Wednesday, then. His lips quirked in spite of himself as he slipped his mobile back into his pocket, made his way into the kitchen. Mayhaps he'd make something special for Bilbo, to put him at his ease as well.

  


*

  


“I made pasta.” Grinning, Bofur carefully heaped little piles of noodles onto each plate. “ 's a bit of pesto capellini. An' I roasted up some salmon this afternoon.”

            “It smells lovely.” Bilbo had yet to remove his jacket. “I'd no idea you were a chef as well.”

            “Ach, ye're a sweet-talker,” Bofur muttered.

            “Also, I find it rather endearing when you blush like that.”

            “Pardon?”

            Bilbo let his lips curve upward then, just a little. “Shall I set the table? No, I don't mind,” he added as Bofur opened his mouth to protest. “Really, it's the least I can do. Where do you keep your flatware and glasses?”

            “Flatware's in the drawer just left of the stove. Glasses're in that cupboard there.” Bofur stole a sidelong glance at the other as he bustled about. _He only does that when he's nervous, have ye noticed?_

            “Thanks,” he said aloud as he brought their plates to the table. “Now, what's all this about then? Forgive me sayin' so, but ye did not sound quite yerself when we spoke on the phone earlier.”

            Bilbo tucked his napkin neatly into his collar, picked up his fork. “There are more things I wanted to talk to you about, concerning the scheduling of our time together.” He twisted his wrist deftly, twirling a forkful of pasta around and around. “It seems I am going to become rather busier in the near future.”

            “Alright.” Bofur quickly started slicing his portion of fish into bite-size chunks. “So, d'ye want to play things by ear then? Or have certain days that're just for scenes and the like?”

            “I...am not sure yet.”

            “Well, what days are ye going t'be busy on?”

            “I am not certain of that either, I'm afraid.”

            “Are you really sure ye're alright?” Bofur's chest was beginning to tighten, not a good sign. “I mean, I'm not one to judge and I've hardly known ye for but a month, but it seems t'me that something's shaken ye. Something ye thought to be done with?”

            When Bilbo put down his glass of water to fix Bofur with an arrested expression, Bofur gave an apologetic shrug. “One knows another.”

            Bilbo inclined his head. “You're friends with Thorin Oakenshield, yes? You are on good terms with each other?”

            “Sure we're good enough friends; I've known 'im three, maybe four years. But what's Thorin got to do with anythin'?”

            “He has asked a favor of me. I went to meet him Sunday last, not long after you had left my home.”

            Bofur frowned. “And it's this favor he's asked that'll keep ye busy, is it?” he said. “May, uh, may I know what the favor was?”

            Regret, and an odd touch of guilt passed across the other's face. “I'm sorry Bofur, but the nature of Thorin's...request is not something I can share with you, or with anyone really. It is something of a deeply personal matter.”

            “You're not goin' t'get hurt, are ye? It's not somethin' bad? Thorin wouldn't put a friend in harm's way intentionally, I'm sure of it, goodness knows he's helped keep me safe a time or two, so how bad could it really be, eh? More water?”

            He took Bilbo's glass without waiting for a reply, standing abruptly and retreating into his kitchen. The rushing gurgle of the tap seemed harshly loud, as Bofur stood there blinking rapidly.

            What on earth was going on? What could Thorin possibly want from mild-mannered Bilbo? Did they really know each other so well that Bilbo was trusted with Thorin's 'deeply personal' problems? Had they had a relationship in the past? His mind was hurtling along rusted tracks at a thousand miles a minute.

            Cold wetness startled him out of his reverie, had him hastening to turn off the water. Cursing under his breath, he carefully poured the excess water out of the overfull glass and snatched up a nearby towel to dry the sides of it.

            When he turned back towards the dining table, Bilbo had set aside his fork and knife and was waiting with hands folded patiently. He murmured thanks as his fresh glass was set in front of him, and took a hefty swallow.

            He reached out to lay his hand over Bofur's, hesitantly interlacing their fingers. Bofur did not flinch but did not meet his gaze, not until Bilbo began stroking his thumb in soft little circles over the back of Bofur's hand.

            “Please don't fret, as I'm said I'm sure it's nothing. Which,” he conceded “I am aware, may not seem the most comforting of words at the present moment.”

            “They really aren't, y'know,” Bofur's voice came out shaking just a little, but with the smallest of giggles underneath. “Tsk tsk, that's something we'll have to work on.”

            Bilbo's brow quirked but a smile flashed across his lips, answering Bofur's tease, trying to keep him at ease. “I shall do my utmost to dust up my deplorable comfort skills in the future then.”

            “That's good, that's good.” Bofur squeezed Bilbo's hand, causing the man's throat to work hard a moment, sparking Bofur's worried curiosity further, but Bilbo pressed his lips together. Whatever he'd thought to say, something had made him reconsider.

            “This is delicious, by the way.” Bilbo released Bofur's hand in favor of returning to their meal. “Wherever did you learn to cook like this?”

            Recognizing that the moment had passed, Bofur did his best to steady his thoughts and turn his attention to calmer things, topics he could handle. “Me dad was always putterin' about the kitchen,” he began, launching into tales of how he'd always been amusingly underfoot as a child.

            Over the next forty minutes they talked comfortably, speaking of quiet things like cookery and books and music, of favorite hobbies and places visited. It was almost like a first date, Bofur thought, and for awhile he felt a giddy teenager again. Nothing overtly sexual, no role-playing or power exchange. There was just the simple joy to be found in learning about another person, and the quiet glow of enjoying each other's company.

            The dishes were placed in the sink and leftovers stacked in the fridge. Bilbo had put on his coat and Bofur was walking him to the door.

            “Bilbo?”

            “Yes?”

            “You – be careful, alright?” He might be imagining things, but when he put a hand on the shorter man's shoulder Bofur could have sworn Bilbo's eyes wavered. “Even if it is just nothing. Promise me you'll be careful?”

            “I'll be careful.” He mirrored Bofur's gesture, and pressed a chaste kiss to Bofur's cheek. “You have my word.”

            “Thanks.” Bofur breathed the word out, grazed fingers over the point of contact when Bilbo moved away. “So you'll be in touch then? About our next date?”

            “Absolutely.” Bilbo gave him a smile, all warmth and reassurance. “I look forward to it a great deal. I look forward to knowing you further.”

            “Further an' deeper, one might say,” Bofur grinned. “Aye, I look forward to it as well.” He opened the door, waved as Bilbo went down the stone stairs to the street below.


End file.
